Inamorata (6/36) – WMC fic

PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
DISCLAIMER: Characters, not mine. Story, mine.

Lindsay had spent most of the day trying to explain to the most stubborn member of the FBI that she didn’t know how she could offer him any more help. She really wished that she could. But if she knew where to find Kiss-Me-Not, or what his next move might be, she wouldn’t be standing around chatting in a conference room all day. She would be out tracking the son of a bitch down, not only for the safety of her friends and herself, but because he had tortured and murdered three women, and unlike Agent Ashe, who was waiting all comfy cozy back at headquarters for a possible threat to come in, she’d actually had the misfortune of witnessing those crime scenes.

She also hadn’t neglected to mention the fact that, with everything she had given him, the knowledge that Kiss-Me-Not’s crimes were fairy tale based, and the FBI’s vast manpower and resources, one would think they would have caught him by now. She didn’t bother to tell him that she’d been using the same set of criteria to beat herself up on a daily basis. Because, yes, the FBI really should have had more of a clue in all of this, but she should have found him first. Before it ever got this far.

As obstinate as he was, Lindsay had finally gotten her point across enough to make Agent Ashe storm out at ten ’til nine, giving her some time to turn to her own case, which Jacobi had been left to tend to alone all day.

“So, I do still have a partner,” Jacobi yawned and stretched, leaning back in his chair and resting his laced hands behind his head. “Have you been returned to the SFPD?”

“For now. Agent Ass decided to take the night off.”

Jacobi laughed as if he knew that he shouldn’t, and tilted his chair forward again.

“Good, ’cause I could use some help.”

He pushed a file across his desk in Lindsay’s direction. Lindsay got up to get it, stalling for a moment at the edge of his desk.

“I’m really sorry for all of this,” she said quietly.

“Don’t be sorry,” he responded immediately. “This isn’t your fault. And you’re making more sacrifices than anyone.”

That was true. With the exception of Cindy. Lindsay trusted that this was equally difficult for both of them. But it could have been so much worse. She tried not to think about just how close she’d come to making too big of a sacrifice when it came to Cindy.

As for Jacobi, Lindsay wanted so much to say thank you, to let him know what it meant to her that he was always watching her back, but she couldn’t find the words. When he looked up at her with a slight nod and a world of concern in his eyes, she knew he understood, so she just smiled and returned to her desk.

It was nice to think about something other than her own peril for a while, to immerse herself into the file, the case, and the occasional thought that she couldn’t wait to get home for her nightly bedtime phone call. Maybe her work with the FBI would actually produce some results, and she would soon be taking part in the same conversations with Cindy lying in her arms instead of across town. It was one of the little desires that made Lindsay keep giving her all in her meetings with Ashe, even though he continually accused her of withholding.

“Inspector Boxer.”

The voice was very familiar, but the tone wasn’t. It sounded extraordinarily formal, and reminded Lindsay of the beginning, when she was fighting all affection for the prying, over-animated reporter with everything that she had. Now, she wished that Cindy could safely use her first name in public. But it was just too risky. She internally praised Cindy’s aloofness, and internally chastised her at the same time. She really shouldn’t have been there at all.

The place was almost abandoned. Only a handful of people were working into the night along with Jacobi and her, and all other bodies in the room were there for protection, both her detail and Cindy’s appointed officer for the day, who stopped off to talk to the rest of the security team, leaving Cindy free to approach Lindsay’s desk alone.

“Ms. Thomas,” Lindsay greeted. “Is there something I can do for you?”

It felt so phony. And, yet, as soon as Cindy entered her space, it felt kind of intimate too, as if they were in a bubble; unfortunately, a bubble that others could see through, so the pretense of being barely acquainted remained necessary. It wasn’t like being in Claire’s office. Far too many people came in and out of the station, and there were too many windows to be too friendly here. Lindsay had actually gotten Cindy to agree that this wasn’t a safe place to be seen together. So, what in the hell was she doing?

“I have something for you actually,” Cindy said, pulling a photo from her bag and handing it over the top of Lindsay’s desk. “Information on your case.”

“Why would you help me with my case?” Lindsay asked, in the off-chance that anyone was paying too much attention to them.

“Because it’s my story, and I’d like it to break some time soon, while it’s still front page material.”

Lindsay bit her lip to keep from smiling at the very well-rehearsed routine she was witnessing, and looked down at a photograph of the crime scene she hadn’t seen before.

“Where did you get this?”

“A gallery across town. A photographer has this photograph up as part of her showing there.”

Lindsay looked up sharply. Cindy was amazing at finding these things. How did she ever get by without her?

“And can I show you…” Cindy trailed off, motioning to the chair next to Lindsay’s desk.

Lindsay nodded. Cindy walked around the side of the desk, pulled the chair closer and sat down. Her thigh brushed against Lindsay’s as she sat, and then she returned it there and left it, pressed solidly against Lindsay’s. It was completely intentional. And equally pleasurable.

“She dated the photograph. Look at the date.”

“Twelve days before the murder.”

“Which means that whoever committed the murder saw this photograph, or has an amazing sense of coincidence. It’s a tiny gallery. It can’t have that many patrons.”

Cindy glanced over at her, and Lindsay was almost certain her heart stopped completely as their eyes met. It was hard not to let every word of their conversation from the night before play in her mind. She felt as if they were having another unspoken conversation now, completely separate from the one they were having out loud.

She moved her hand to the corner of the picture where Cindy’s hand was resting. Under the guise of pointing to the date, she slid her fingers over Cindy’s.

“Is this when the picture was taken or when it was first displayed?”

“When it was taken,” Cindy said, trying to compensate for her sudden loss of breath.

“Do you know when it was put up in the gallery?”

The heat from Cindy’s body was distracting, the scent of her overwhelming. Lindsay had given the FBI everything she had. When were they going to catch this guy? She needed to be free of him. Free to be with Cindy. Whenever. Wherever. Because, save for the danger that it would pose to her, there was nothing in the world that could keep her from kissing Cindy at this very moment.

“Um, the owner said less than a week ago.”

“That’s a small window when someone could have seen it. Do you know if they keep a guestbook?”

Like magic, Cindy pulled the pages from her bag, though it took a tiny bit of struggle, because she used only one hand, leaving the other where it was still resting beneath Lindsay’s.

“Photocopies,” Cindy explained.

God, she was amazing.

“This will make a big difference,” Lindsay said, softening her voice. “Thank you.”

Cindy paused, staring down at the photograph. Her hand lingered under Lindsay’s. Lindsay didn’t want her to move any more than Cindy wanted to, but Cindy finally took a deep breath and stood up, sliding her hand out from under Lindsay’s, leaving it feeling incredibly empty.

“When you do break the case, I’ll expect you to return the favor.”

“I will,” Lindsay promised. And much, much more, she thought.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Lindsay returned.

She watched Cindy walk off. It felt like all she saw Cindy do anymore, walk away before they were finished.

Cindy’s guard fell in beside her as she walked by and followed her out the door, and Lindsay fought the urge to watch Cindy all the way past the windows until she disappeared from sight. Instead, she returned her eyes to the photograph.

Jacobi walked up to her desk, laying a consoling hand on her shoulder. Lindsay’d suspected for a while that he knew a lot more than he would ever let on.

“What do we got?” he asked.

“Picture that looks remarkably like the crime scene, taken prior to the actual crime.”

“That’s an interesting twist,” Jacobi said, plucking the picture from her hand.

That’s when Lindsay saw the note, compactly folded up on her desk.

“Isn’t it?” she responded, moving her hand quickly over the small block of paper and closing her fingers around it.

“We’ll jump on that first thing tomorrow,” Jacobi said, laying the picture next to the file on Lindsay’s desk. “That reporter really is something.”

Lindsay smiled a little. That was as close to a seal of approval as Jacobi was going to give her. At least until he had the chance to sit down and ask Cindy all those fatherly questions regarding intentions and what her plans were for the future.

“Yeah,” she quietly agreed with the sentiment.

Jacobi went back to his desk without another word, and Lindsay opened the file, laying the photograph on top. She casually glanced around. The few people left weren’t paying any attention to her, so she quickly unfolded the note.

“11:00″ written inside a heart. That was all.

For the time being, it would have to be enough.